The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection Frost, J (good beach reads .TXT) 📖

that says, Blunts, Founded 1864, Members Only. It looks like a very big, very dull hotel.

We’re here at my club on this overcast Friday morning because I got out-voted over breakfast. While we were enjoying Emily’s excellent cinnamon French toast, I offered a day of sightseeing. Jiro asked if they might see Blunts instead. When I demurred, because there wasn’t likely to be much going on until tonight, Emily chimed in about the spa, gym, and pool, and the next thing I knew, the three of them had their hands in the air voting to spend the day at Blunts.

As I usher them through the revolving front door, Jiro and Laurel look distinctly unimpressed.

I have to laugh at their expressions. The façade is deliberately dull. What’s inside is anything but.

Beyond the revolving door, there’s a square room that can only hold about a dozen people. The only exit is a single door behind the marble reception desk. Jerrod, one of our full-time security staff, is manning the desk. We don’t address each other by name, even though I helped hire him and we’ve known each other for over four years. He takes the security code I give him, which we change weekly, and sets a pair of tablets with the confidentiality agreement and waiver we require from guests on the top of the counter. I give Jiro and Laurel a minute to read and sign while I press my thumb to the scanner Jerrod holds out to me and then waive Emily forward to do her scan. Jerrod winks at her as the machine blinks green.

Once Jiro and Laurel sign the waiver and press their thumbs to the scanner, Jerrod slides a folded piece of paper across the counter to me. I give it a quick read, then slide it back, put my hand in the small of Emily’s back, and usher our little group through the inner door when Jerrod buzzes us in.

The central hallway of Blunts is a little more impressive than the entrance. Jiro and Laurel look around with interest. The hallway’s over a hundred feet long, wood paneled, smelling sweetly of cedar. Along the inner wall, in niches spaced every ten feet, there’s a pedestal. Half of the pedestals are occupied by erotic sculptures in marble and bronze. The rest of the pedestals are empty, waiting for a submissive to be mounted for display.

I put Emily on one after I caned her during the festival last week. She was so beautiful posing, decorated with nothing but the deep red diamonds the cane left on her ass and thighs, that seeing her made me choke up.

Although some of the club’s more extreme sadists might enjoy seeing Emily’s current crop of bruises, I know my baby girl well enough to recognize that she’d feel humiliated if I made her display them. But once she heals from her punishment, I think a repeat performance is in order.

Across the hallway, rising like a giant redwood, there’s the huge central staircase up to the dungeons. Instead of heading up it, I steer Emily to the left, down the hall, towards the large archway that leads to the Trattoria. Before we get to the archway, I turn Emily to the right, through a wooden door with a brass sign that says, “Stables.”

“Daddy?”

I press my thumb to the security scanner and push open the door.

“Javier left a message at the desk to say he’ll join us for lunch but, in the meanwhile, Sean and Moon are training in the courtyard and we might enjoy watching Moon go through her paces.”

Emily’s face lights up. “I’d love that.”

I thought she might.

The Stables are full working stables for pony play, with five stalls, a breeding station, a washing station, a tack room, and a covered ring so nosy neighbors can’t watch our ponies train. Since the Stables opened two years ago, we’ve hosted dressage competitions every couple of months. Our two pony-girls, Moon and Trudy, have won several ribbons. At the meeting on Monday, we voted in a new pony-boy, Allyn.

As we pass through the Stables, I see Allyn’s ebony curls sticking out from under a plaid blanket in one of the stalls. Looks like he’s settling in already and he’s had his morning exercise.

The jingle of tack greets us as we emerge from the cool of the Stables into the ring. The grassy ring’s enclosed on three sides with the fourth side opening out to the courtyard. The hazy, mid-morning sun fills the ring with light through the translucent roof, making the manicured grass gleam and glitter. The bleachers we set up for the competitions are folded back against the walls at the moment, but the judge’s stand is up. On the stand, there’s a long table with several chairs that have the best view of the ring.

Two of my club-brothers sit at the table, watching as Moon trots in place, practicing piaffe, while Sean holds a crop in front of her to indicate the height for her knees. Sean’s casual in jeans and riding boots, his chest bare, while Moon’s wearing a black, sleeveless bodysuit under her chest harness, with her arms bound behind her in a single sleeve, her ankles and feet encased in hoof boots. Moon’s grace, on those impossible-looking hooves, is almost ethereal. She looks like she’s floating as she trots.

Beside me, Emily sighs. “She’s so pretty.”

“She is. I bet if you’re a good girl while you watch her training, Sean will let you give her a treat and maybe even stroke her.”

Emily looks up at me, all huge hazel eyes. “Could I give her a sugar cube? Or a carrot if sugar is too unhealthy?”

“We’ll see what Sean says. C’mon, my baby.”

I help her up the three steps onto the judge’s stand and greet the two Doms already seated at the table. “Karl, Johnny. You’ve met my submissive, Emily. These are my guests, Jiro and Laurel.”

Karl’s return greeting is abbreviated by a groan, his face reddening. Karl reaches under the